Lincoln Child - Deep Storm

Lindengood walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, careful to leave the door wide open. He kept the air hose in his hand, playing with it idly. The man wasn't going to try anything, not here-besides, he hardly looked the physical type-but on the off chance he did, Lindengood could use the air hose as a blackjack. Yet once again he reminded himself that wouldn't be necessary: he'd transact his bit of business and then vanish. Wallace didn't know where he lived, and Lindengood sure as hell wasn't about to tell him.

"You've been paid, and paid well," Wallace said in his quiet voice. "Your part of the job is finished."

"I know that," Lindengood replied, careful to keep his own voice firm and confident. "It's just that, now that I know a little more about your, um, operation, I'm beginning to think I was underpaid."

"You don't know anything about any operation."

"I know that it's far from kosher. Look, I'm the one who found you, remember?"

Wallace didn't answer. He simply stared back, his expression neutral, almost placid. Outside, the air compressor chuffed, then chimed, as it maintained pressure.

"See, I was one of the last of the crew to leave Storm King," Lindengood went on. "It happened a week after we'd finished our little business, and I'd fed you the last of the data. All these government types, all these scientists, began swarming over the place. And I got to thinking. Something huge, really huge, was taking place. It was a lot bigger than I'd ever thought. So just the fact you were interested in what I had to sell meant your people must have resources- and deep pockets."

"What's your point?" Wallace said.

Lindengood licked his lips. "My point is certain officials would be very, very eager to learn of your interest in Storm King."

"Are you threatening us?" Wallace asked. His quiet voice had gone silky.

"I don't want to use that word. Let's say I'm trying to redress an imbalance. Clearly my original fee wasn't nearly enough. Hey, I'm the guy who first discovered the readings, reported the anomaly. Doesn't that count for anything? And I passed the information on to you: all the readouts, the triangulation data, the telemetry from the deep-sea probe. Everything . And I'm the only one who could have done it-I made the connection, saw the data. No one else knows."

"No one else," Wallace repeated.

"Without me, your people wouldn't even have known about the project. You wouldn't have your own-I presume?-assets in place."

Wallace took off his glasses, began polishing them on the tank top. "How much were you thinking?"

"I was thinking fifty thousand."

"And then you'll go away for good. Is that it?"

Lindengood nodded. "You'll never hear from me again."

Wallace considered this for a moment, still polishing. "It'll take me a day or two to get the money together. We'll have to meet again."

"Two days is fine," Lindengood replied. "We can meet here, the same-"

Quick as a striking snake, Wallace's right fist shot out, index and middle knuckles extended, hammering Lindengood in the solar plexus. A crippling pain blossomed deep in his gut. Lindengood opened his mouth but no sound emerged. Involuntarily he bent forward, fighting to get his wind back, hands clutching his midriff. Now Wallace's right hand grabbed Lindengood by the hair and pulled him down onto the seat while brutally twisting his head around. Staring eyes wide with agony, Lindengood saw Wallace look first left, then right-glasses forgotten-checking that his actions were unobserved. Still holding Lindengood by the hair, he reached over to close the driver's door. As the man sat back again, Lindengood saw he had the air hose in his other hand.

"You, my friend, have just become a liability," Wallace said.

At last, Lindengood found he could speak. But as he drew in breath to yell, Wallace thrust the air hose into the back of his throat.

Lindengood retched and bucked violently. He pulled up from the seat despite the restraint, hair tearing out at the roots. Wallace grabbed a second, larger handful of hair, pulled him back, and with a brutal movement shoved the air hose directly down his windpipe.

Blood filled Lindengood's mouth and throat and he let out a gargling scream. But then Wallace clamped down on the compressor handle; air shot from the nozzle with terrible, overwhelming force; and a pain unlike anything Lindengood had ever remotely imagined exploded in his chest.

The voice that echoed over the talkback mike was pitched slightly high, as if the person on the other end was sucking helium. "Another five minutes, Dr. Crane, and you can pass through airlock C."

"Thank God." Peter Crane swung his legs off the metal bench where he'd been dozing, stretched, and checked his watch. It was 4 A.M.-but he suspected that, if the Facility was anything like a submarine, day and night held little meaning.

Six hours had passed since he'd left the bathyscaphe and entered the maze of airlocks known as the Compression Complex. He'd been cooling his heels since, waiting through the Facility's unusual acclimatization period. As a doctor, he was curious about this: he had no idea what it might consist of or what technology was involved. All that Asher had told him was that it made working at great depths easier. Perhaps they'd modified the atmospheric composition: reduced the amount of nitrogen and added some exotic gas. Whatever the case, it was clearly an important breakthrough-no doubt one of the classified elements that made this mission so hush-hush.

Every two hours, he had been instructed by the same disembodied chipmunk voice to pass into a new chamber. Each was identical: a large saunalike cube with tiers of metal bunks. The only difference had been the color. The first compression chamber had been military gray; the second, pale blue; and the third-rather surprisingly-red.

After finishing a short dossier on Atlantis he'd found in the initial chamber, Crane spent the time dozing or paging through a thick anthology of poetry he'd brought along. Or thinking. He spent a lot of time staring up at the metal ceiling-and the miles of water pressing down on him-and thinking.

He wondered about the cataclysm that could have sunk the city of Atlantis to such a depth; about the lost civilization that had once flourished. It could not be the Greeks, or the Phoenicians, or the Minoans, or any of the other usual suspects favored by historians. As the dossier made clear, nobody knew anything about Atlantean civilization-not really. Although Crane was surprised the city was situated this far north, the dossier also explained that, even in the original sources, its actual location was obscure. Plato himself knew next to nothing about its citizenry or civilization. Perhaps, Crane mused, that was one reason it had remained hidden so long.

As the hours slowly passed, his feeling of disbelief refused to ebb. It all seemed miraculous. Not just that it had all happened so quickly, not just that the project was so breathtakingly important-but that they'd wanted him . He hadn't stressed the point to Asher, but the fact was he remained unsure why they'd so particularly required his services. After all, his specialty wasn't hematology or toxicology. You are uniquely qualified-both as a doctor and as a former officer-to treat the affliction, Asher had said. True, he was well versed in the disorders of those who lived in undersea environments, but there were other doctors who could make the same claim.

He stretched again, then shrugged. He'd learn the reason soon enough. And besides, it didn't really matter; being here was simply his good fortune. He wondered what strange and wonderful artifacts had been unearthed, what ancient secrets might already have been rediscovered.